


it's the way i feel when i'm with you (brand new)

by glowinghorizons



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 17:06:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4713794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glowinghorizons/pseuds/glowinghorizons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It’s not like she thinks she’s going to swoon at the sight of Bellamy in glasses, but she’s seen him in a crude imitation of sunglasses before, and that was more than enough to solidify that she finds people in thick-rimmed glasses extremely attractive."</p>
<p>Based on a headcanon that Bellamy wears reading glasses, and that Clarke is totally into it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's the way i feel when i'm with you (brand new)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [goldenheadfreckledheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenheadfreckledheart/gifts).



> This was originally posted on my blog as an author appreciation gift for Lexi (goldenheadfreckledheart). The title is taken from the song "Brand New" by Ben Rector.
> 
> As always, I don't own The 100, any of the characters, or any similarities between this plot and the plot of the show. Any similarities between this plot and the plot of other fanfic works are purely coincidental.

Bellamy needs glasses. 

He needs glasses and he’s too stubborn to tell anyone, but Clarke is a  _doctor_. She knows these things. It’s hard for Clarke to stay silent, but Octavia begged Clarke not to say anything, because  _if you don’t, Bellamy will get so paranoid, he already thinks he’s a hundred years older than all of us_ , and Clarke wants to argue. She wants to argue that his sight has nothing to do with his age.

Clarke wants to argue that he needs to get over himself because he’s their  _best hunter_  and if he can’t even  _see_ , how is he supposed to watch anyone’s back, let alone his own?

Clarke wants to say all these things, but she doesn’t, and not just because Octavia asked her not to.

Clarke has come to the startling realization that Bellamy Blake with glasses would likely be the end of her, and that’s not how she wants to go out.

It’s not like she thinks she’s going to swoon at the sight of Bellamy in glasses, but she’s seen him in a crude imitation of sunglasses before, and that was more than enough to solidify that she finds people in thick-rimmed glasses  _extremely_  attractive.

Of course, they have no way of getting glasses down here. Until the Ark comes down ( _if it ever comes down)_ they won’t have access to any kind of specialized medical treatment. 

Still, Clarke convinces herself it’s purely worry for her co-leader that has her breaching the subject on a rainy afternoon when they have nothing better to do but inventory inside the dropship.

He’s squinting at the labels on things, tiny pieces of paper that Clarke has painstakingly attached to various tubs and vials with the help of some type of sap glue that Monty made from a clump of trees near their camp.

“Can you even read that?” Clarke blurts, and Bellamy glances at her, one eyebrow raised. “Just… you’re holding it really close to your face.”

“I’m sorry, am I bothering you with my reading habits? You do know you demanded that I come in here and help you with this, right?” He asks, sounding irritated.

Clarke huffs. This is not how she imagined this conversation going. “I’m just saying, if you can’t see what you’re reading, you’re not going to be much help at all.”

Bellamy lifts his eyes to the ceiling, rolling his eyes, and drops the canister he’s holding to the counter with a thump. “You know, as fun as this has been, I think I have something else to do.” 

He doesn’t storm out of the dropship, not quite, but Clarke imagines that if it had a real door, he would have slammed it on his way out.

She bites her lip, watching until she can’t see his silhouette anymore. 

Nope. Not how she imagined this conversation going at all.

.

.

.

Two weeks later, and Clarke still hasn’t broached the topic of glasses with Bellamy. She doesn’t know why she’s being such an idiot about it. It’s only going to improve things – she thinks Raven has gotten good enough at welding that if they found some glass and plastic in a bunker somewhere, Bellamy could have a decent pair of glasses – that, and he won’t accidentally shoot someone in the face, or eat something he isn’t supposed to eat. 

Of course, that puts an image of Bellamy with dark-framed lenses making his already dark eyes stand out even more into her head, and that doesn’t help her confidence. 

When he comes into the medbay later that night, rubbing his temples and complaining of a headache, Clarke knows she needs to bite the bullet and just talk to him about it. Just because she’s not sure her hormones can handle Bellamy with glasses doesn’t mean the poor guy has to suffer for it.

“Did you wear glasses on the Ark?” She asks him, rooting around in her stores for a plant that Monty discovered worked as a really nice pain killer. It didn’t taste great, but would do the trick in a pinch.

“What?”

“Glasses. Did you wear them? Even just to read?”

He eyes her strangely. “Uh, I was supposed to. When I was training as a cadet they had me wear contacts. After…” he swallows hard, “after everything, they made me a janitor and figured I didn’t need them anymore. If I wasn’t firing a gun, I didn’t need 20/20 vision.”

“That’s why you’re getting headaches,” she said, hands on her hips, “You didn’t have reading glasses?”

“They weren’t exactly cheap at the market, Princess,” he practically spits at her, and she flinches as if she can feel his words like a physical touch.

“Eat this,” she tells him, thrusting the stalk of a plant at his chest, “If it doesn’t get better by morning, talk to Monty.”

“Clarke–”

“I have other patients,” she tells him.

“Why do you care about my eyesight so bad?”

Clarke glares, “Don’t be stupid!”

Bellamy opens his mouth like he’s going to retort, but instead clamps his jaw shut, the muscle there ticking. 

“You need to be able to look after yourself,” Clarke says quietly, getting his attention. “How are you supposed to be on watch in the dark if you can’t see anything?”

“I need glasses but I’m not blind, Clarke,” he says dryly. 

“Well sorry for thinking that maybe fixing your eyesight and curing your headaches would be a good idea. I’ll try not to  _bother you_  anymore–”

“This is easily the dumbest argument we’ve ever had,” Bellamy interrupts her, his tone flippant. “You want to tell me what this is really about?”

_I think you’d be even more attractive with glasses on and my hormones are competing with my doctor instincts and that makes me mad_  is probably not an answer she should give him, so Clarke turns away, working on grinding some seaweed into a thick paste. 

When she turns back to face him, he’s watching her, his head tilted as he studies her in a way that makes her want to squirm. “You’re being weird,” he accuses, pointing his finger at her. “I’m going to figure out why sooner or later, you know.”

Clarke considers sticking her tongue out at him, but decides against it. “I’m not being weird,” she argues.

“You forget that I know you better than just about anyone, Clarke,” he says, and there’s something there in the tone of his voice that makes her mouth run dry and a shiver run down her spine. She tries not to think too hard about it.

.

.

.

They’re planning another trip to some bunkers they found on an old map, and it’s then that Clarke realizes she really needs to get over herself and  _help him_. 

They’re standing shoulder to shoulder on one side of the table, Miller and Raven on the other side, and she can practically feel the force that he’s using to squint at the maps laid out in front of them.

“Okay, this has gone on long enough,” she says suddenly, and his brow furrows as his eyes meet hers. “You need glasses,” she tells him, and he rolls his eyes. 

“Oh sure, I’ll just go to the nearest Grounder eye doctor–”

“We can make glasses for you–”

“I already feel ten years older than everyone else here, I don’t need to be the only one losing their eyesight–”

“You’re not losing your eyesight, but you need  _reading glasses_  or you’re going to go blind before you’re thirty.”

Miller and Raven share a glance warily and slink from the tent silently, unnoticed by Clarke and Bellamy, who are nearly standing toe to toe in the middle of the comms tent.

“You’ve never said anything about it before; why is it such a priority? We don’t have the tools to make glasses for anyone.”

Clarke is becoming increasingly flustered, the side of her not wanting to lose her mind and jump his bones warring with the side of her that knows he could start developing migraines and serious side effects if they don’t take care of this. “Look, it’s not good for you. You need to be able to read, and you need to be able to–”

“This is why you’ve been so weird,” he says suddenly, taking a step closer, “You’ve been wanting to bring this up again for weeks.”

“Octavia asked me not to,” Clarke says weakly, not liking the knowing look in Bellamy’s eyes as he advances on her. “She said it would make you feel old.”

He doesn’t even flinch at the mention of being old, and Clarke thinks that she’s in serious trouble when he begins to smirk at her.

“Don’t look at me,” she says grumpily and he chuckles.

“Are you  _pouting_? Clarke Griffin, I never–”

“This is what I get for trying to get rid of your headaches? See if I ever help you again, you egotistical–”

He cuts off her tirade by catching her hand, cradling it close to his chest. “Clarke.”

“What?” She says and she doesn’t mean for it to come out so breathy, because she’s embarrassed and still mad at him, and still thinking about how  _good he’s going to look in glasses_ , but he just smiles at her, the  _idiot_ –

“Thanks for looking out for me. I’ll talk to Raven about some glasses.”

.

.

.

A week later, Bellamy, Miller, Jasper, Finn, and Monroe come back from the scouting trip to the bunkers and Clarke’s throat goes dry at the sight of glasses perched on Bellamy’s nose as he holds an ancient looking book in front of his face.

“Princess,” he greets, smirking as he walks, and she barely registers Miller squeezing her shoulder in greeting, or the other boys and Monroe saying their hellos, Jasper chatting nonstop about all the abandoned buildings they found on their way back.

“You asked for this, you know,” Octavia says from where she’s materialized next to Clarke, and Clarke stifles a groan. “For what it’s worth, he hasn’t complained about any headaches since Raven made those for him.

Clarke feels better after hearing that, she really does, but she still can’t shake the image of him, smirking at her in his glasses, practically sauntering around the camp, and she knows that other people have caught on. She knows, because suddenly the harem he developed when they first landed on the ground is back in full force, and Clarke wants to hit something.

Either that, or stake her claim on her co-leader, which is easily the most ridiculous thought she’s ever had.

“Princess, can I talk to you for a second?”  _Speak of the devil,_ Clarke thinks.

“Give me a minute,” she says wearily, closing her eyes and sucking in a deep breath before she turns around to see him waiting for her at the entrance to the dropship. 

As she reaches him, he holds the flap open for her, and he follows her inside. They’re both quiet and Clarke  _hates_  it.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says bluntly. 

“ _You’ve_  been gone for three days. Hard to avoid someone if they’re not here.”

His face hardens, “Clarke, stop it.”

“I’m not doing anything.” She replies, and she can  _feel_  how childish she’s being, but she can’t do anything to stop it. Her mouth seems to be working without her permission.

“What’s going on? Why can you suddenly not stand to even be in the same room as me? I know we don’t always see eye to eye, but the last month or so, things have been good, and we’re  _surviving_ –”

“It’s nothing to do with you!” Clarke whisper-shouts, fully aware that there are curious ears lurking outside the dropship, waiting to hear if their leaders have killed each other. “Okay? It’s me. I’m just… I’m being stupid. It’s nothing.”

“It’s something, or else we wouldn’t have to have this conversation,” Bellamy says, and his brow is knit in concern behind his glasses, and Clarke wants to scream. 

“Screw it,” she mutters, before making a decision.

She takes three steps forward and all but leaps at him, feeling relieved when his arms go around her waist automatically as she presses her lips against hers. She’s gratified to feel and hear his gasp as his mouth opens against hers, and then he’s kissing her back,  _really_  kissing her, and she can’t help the whimper she lets out against his lips.

It’s everything she never gave herself permission to think about before, and she doesn’t want it to end. He hauls her closer, and she feels him set her down on the cool metal of the exam table, and then her hands are in his messy hair, pulling him ever closer.

“Clarke–” he mutters lowly, his voice a deep rumble in his chest as they break apart just enough to draw in a breath. “ _Jesus–”_

“You look really good in glasses, okay?” She says frustrated that he’s not touching her anymore, and his surprised laugh makes her stomach flip. 

“ _That’s_  been your problem lately? Christ, Clarke, I should have gotten glasses weeks ago, then we could have been–”

“Shut up,” Clarke demands, before kissing him again, slower and sweeter, more languid than before, but still just as electric. 

“We’re the dumbest people on Earth,” he mumbles against the column of her neck as he begins trailing kisses down the smooth skin he finds there. 

“Speak for yourself,” she grumbles and he laughs, the noise muffled against her mouth as she drags his face back up to hers.

They don’t argue much more after that. 

**Author's Note:**

> Let's talk about what pure Bellarke trash we are together on [Tumblr.](http://dreamingundone.tumblr.com)


End file.
